


Absence makes the heart grow lonely

by j520j



Series: Green Eyes [2]
Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Blake et Mortimer | Blake and Mortimer, Poirot - Agatha Christie, Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: Crack Relationships, Crossover Pairings, Emotional Infidelity, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Sexual Tension, What Was I Thinking?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-07-18 16:04:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16121981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j520j/pseuds/j520j
Summary: The loners attract themselves.





	1. Chapter 1

“ _Non, non, non, non, professeur!_ You’re doing it wrong!” Poirot exclaimed, visibly disturbed.

“Huh? What I’m doing wrong?” Mortimer asked, confused.

“The bow tie!” the Belgian approached Scotsman with steady steps and a frown. “The ideal shirt for this type of tie is the wing collar shirt, but when you use it with a slim-fitting shirt you need to make sure the tie is well positioned and firm. It tends to fall.”

With attentive eyes, Poirot put his hands up to the scientist's tie and began arranging it methodically. Mortimer had no choice but to stand still, watching the little man adjusting his look.

“The ‘Bat Wing’ bow tie is a poor choice to use in your lectures. I think the ‘Diamond’ is better. Gives you a better impress.” the detective moved his hands away from the scientist's collar and slid to his shoulders, adjusting the fabric of his shirt. “There's a great tie shop on the _Rue des Martyrs_ , we can go there and buy some new ties. And I think the color blue doesn’t look good with the coloring of your beard.” his hands were now at chest height, smoothing the fabric. “And do not forget that it's no use wearing a classy tie if the rest of your clothes do not agree. This shirt would need to be starched… _eh?_ What are you looking at?”

A wide smile was on Mortimer’s face when he said: “Is this fuss a pretext for you to put your hands on me?”

A soft Gaulish interjection escaped from Poirot's lips. He lowered his eyes, like a child caught in the act of mischief.

“It’s for these and other reasons that I think you should invest in the detective career, _mon cher professeur!_ ”

“Nonsense! Intelligence is not the same as wit and I tend to be very slow in reading human psychology.”

“I think you’re doing just fine by now.”

“Well… maybe!”

For a moment the two men stared at each other, as if expecting something. As they both stood still, they walked away at the same time, each one with a mixture of relief and also disappointment.

It had been almost three weeks since they had met in person on a flight to Brussels. Mortimer came to give lectures at universities and Poirot came to solve some family matters. The detective had already finished his business and could return to London. However, he decided to stay longer and accompany his new friend on his city tours, which the scientist greatly appreciated. He could perfectly go for walks alone in Belgium, but it was much better to be accompanied. Especially if he was in good company.

The walks through the town were very pleasant and Poirot loved to play the role of cicerone. But it was difficult to him to keep up with the professor's quick step, even more so walking with a cane. Fortunately, Mortimer was keen to offer his arm as support for the Belgian and that physical approximation was appreciated by both.

To keep the proximity, the two even rented a room in the same hotel. Both were developing a close friendship. And, from the point of view of some people, maybe too close.

“This weekend you will have more lectures to attend, _professeur?_ ” Poirot was experimenting with different types of hats in front of a mirror.  
  
“No, just the one tonight and the next one will be on Tuesday. And the last one on Thursday, where I'll give a workshop for the aeronautical engineering class.” Mortimer was with his hand on the phone to call a cab.  
  
“ _C'est bon!_ That means we'll have time to visit Anvers! They have great shops, beautiful architectural spots and the train station on the city is one of the most gorgeous in the world!”  
  
“Oh, it seems like a good choice for the weekend.”

After that, both went to the _Université libre de Bruxelles_. Poirot attended the lecture as a guest and watched with pleasure at Professor Mortimer's talk about history and science. The detective couldn’t help but admire the intelligence of the man. He seemed to know so many things, and it was pleasant to hear his voice and his Scottish accent. Perhaps Mortimer spoke a little too much, but this was just an easy detail to detach.

But despite the intelligence, the professor was somewhat naive. And a little too impulsive in his attitudes. Maybe his only two similarities to Captain Hastings. On other things, both were very different. Especially in the physical type.

While the captain was tall and thin, Mortimer was a more stocky fellow. There was a fair amount of muscle hidden beneath that tweed, plus a well-disguised belly. In this respect he was similar to Poirot - the Belgian would also be able to develop some muscles, if he did a minimum of exercises.

Hastings' hands were always cold and the Scotsman’s were always warm. It was possible to feel the heat emanating from his body just to get close. Could it be that all redheads were like that? For someone who enjoyed the heat, like Poirot, that characteristic was very welcome.  
  
Mortimer was taller than the Belgian (well, everybody was taller than him) but not as tall as Hastings, who towers above the detective to the point that even if Poirot stood on tiptoe he wouldn’t be able to kiss him.

Oh, yes… The detective finally remembered why he'd been feeling guilty for days.

He desired that man. He had been drawn to him from the moment they met on the plane. It could have been only a superficial attraction at first glance, the kind of situation he would think to himself: ‘ _wow, what a handsome man!’_ and end there. But they talked, drank together, and discovered that they had many affinities. The attraction might have stopped there as well, but then Mortimer phoned Poirot, wondering if he would help him improve his French so he could walk somewhere in the city without needing an interpreter and... bang!

Again, the game could have stopped there. Everything could only be summed up in a tempered friendship with one-sided attraction, but ... well ... it wasn’t one-sided.  
  
He tried to concentrate on the lecture, as he watched the nervous looks Mortimer threw at him from the stage, and wondered which of the two would yield first.


	2. Chapter 2

Philip never believed that he was an attractive man himself. On the contrary, he detested his nose, which he thought was very large. His cheeks were fat, which was half the reason he let his beard grow. The professor also didn’t like his physical type: from the age of thirty he began to develop a belly and it never gone.

His most striking feature, his red hair, he didn’t like either. It was not the bright red of various beauties, such as Susan Hayward or Maureen O'Hara, but a kind of faded brown in the root of the hair and almost blond in the tips. The only motive that made him celebrate the beginning of his white hair is that the color would become more homogeneous over time.

Not that he thought himself an 'ugly' man, that would be too much. But at best he found himself an ‘uninteresting’ type. And for this reason, he really couldn’t understand what a man as attractive as Francis Blake saw in him.

But it happened. The two men began a long-lived friendship that evolved into a relationship. They were together for five years, living a very satisfying domestic life - or at least this was the initial idea.

Blake's profession required him to stay away for a good deal of the time. As one of MI5's bosses he constantly had to make travels around the country. Rarely were the occasions when the man stayed in London for more than two weeks. Not to mention that at various times he also needed to assist MI6 in its international affairs and travel overseas.

Philip was understanding and knew full well that it was all in a day's work , but ... well, he had his needs. Nothing he couldn’t handle by himself, of course. But sometimes Blake's constant absences made him feel very lonely. And suspicious.

But the professor trusted Francis completely, though he didn’t trust Honeychurch much. Well... by Jove! It took him long time to realize that the captain was attracted to men, but the young Honeychurch was clear as water from the beginning! And his admiration for Blake was also clear, although nowadays he would refrain from looking at them since he knew Francis and Philip were together.

The movie clichés about the English espionage service being filled with seductive people was correct. Seduction was also a valid weapon to gather information or even to approach the enemy in order not to miss the target. Francis even told a few stories in which he made use of this resource a few times - though the captain himself was not proud of it, but he did what he needed to do - though he swore his seductions arts had no use since he began to date the scientist.

Yes, Mortimer trusted Blake. But there was a time when he was not sure if he could trust himself.

Unlike Francis, Philip has had a past with women. He has had a fair number of lovers and has always been very chivalrous and gallant - two characteristics that women value more than appearance. He could still look at a girl and see her as a beauty, and if she did bring up a chit-chat, he wouldn’t ignore her. Mortimer loved to talk, didn’t he? And having someone to talk to, and above all to listen to, was something else that women valued too much.

Sometimes the feminine beauty still charmed him, but one thing the professor was sure of: the only man who sexually attracted him in his life was Francis. And no other.

Well, even one of the greatest geniuses may be wrong.

Mortimer and Poirot were walking in a square in Brussels, with the beautiful mixture of modern and ancient architecture surrounding them. The two men were arm in arm, for the detective had difficulty walking long distances. He had a leg injury that he won during the war, so he had to use a cane. This detail made the sight of two men walking together on the street seem less uncomfortable.

"If I'm not mistaken, it was in this same square that I met the captain."

"Captain ...?" Mortimer appeared to have been surprised by the comment.

"Captain Hastings," explained Poirot, guessing at the time the reason for the professor's confusion.

"Ah yes! Sorry! Of course, Captain Hastings! You talk so much about him that I don’t know how could I confuse myself. "

"It happens, _mon cher_! As I was saying, it was in this square that I met him. And it was not under very pleasant circumstances. I was the Belgian police investigator and Arthur was suspected of having committed a murder. The reason was that the criminal's weapon was identical to his. It was a very tense affair, mainly because I fell in love with him at first sight. Ah! _Mon pauvre coeur_! It was terrible to think he could be the killer."

"And he was?"

Poirot didn’t answer, only smiled, and cast an oblique glance at the professor.

"Oh, sorry, sorry! I'm slower than normal today! I think it was all the chocolate we had in Antwerp for breakfast. Sweets always make me get my reasoning kind of slow. "

"I suppose a whiskey was more to your liking."

"It was too early. I'd hate for you to get a bad impression on me, thinking I'm a drunk or something. "

"I would never have a bad impression on you, _mon cher_!"

Ah, that smile, surmounted by the elegant waxed mustache. Those cute dimples. That lovely accent and the Belgian's insistence on pretending that his English was not fluent, letting little phrases in French escape from time to time. Did he do this with everyone or only when he was 'hunting'? Not to speak, of course, in the custom of the continental ones of always invading the personal space of a man without any shame.

How did this happen? Mortimer was attracted to this funny little man.

"Can we sit down for a bit? I think the leg needs rest, "said the detective, waking the professor from his thoughts.

"Oh! Yes of course!"

They sat on a park bench. The Scotsman watched, with amusement, Poirot wipe the spot with a handkerchief before he sat down. This was the only flaw that Mortimer thought was bad about the detective: his cleaning mania and overzealousness in order. If the two of them lived together, the Belgian would not be able to stand in the professor's study room for three seconds.

Wait, what was he thinking? To live together? Where was Philip's mind taking him? Better to get back to reality.

At that moment, he was watching the detective's lips. Poirot took a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and pulled one out of the pack with his mouth. The movement brought illicit ideas to the head of Mortimer, who had to hold his breath to not let a sigh escape. He decided it was best to be distracted by something, so he also removed his pipe from inside his coat pocket.

After lighting his cigarette with a match, the Belgian offered fire to the Philip, who gladly accepted. When it was time to smoke, they were both quiet. Contemplative. Poirot watched the movement in the square with attentive eyes, and at a certain moment turned his head toward the professor and caught him watching.

"What?" the detective asked, puffing the smoke.

"Nothing. I was wondering how you can keep a mustache like this, _monsieur_." Mortimer swallowed his pipe and blew the smoke up. "As you can see, I don’t have a mustache. I find them very uncomfortable. I wonder how a man can keep one. "

"Have you asked Captain Blake this question?"

"Yes. And he always answers the same thing to me: 'It just grows and that is.' And he suggested me to try. "

"I think a mustache would not look very good on you, _mon ami_. It's not all face types that stay aesthetically balanced with one. I think only the beard is enough. "

"I'm glad, 'cause I'm not going to let my mustache grow ever!"

"I am glad too."

"Really?"

"Yes, because this way your lips become more ... accessible."

Okay, or this was a real straight shot toward the 'prey', or Mortimer didn’t know anything about relationships anymore.

If the two were not in a public square, the professor might have shown the detective how 'accessible' his lips were, but no. He should be restrained, especially since the two men have just talked about their domestic partners, haven’t they? Oh, but how tempted was he. Very tempted.

Those last two weeks were an exercise in willpower. Mortimer looked like a thirsty animal circling a bowl of water, but too afraid to approach it to drink of it, however inviting it might seem. Sometimes he wondered if the Belgian was just playing with him, or if he really was as open to an affair as he looked. It could just be a misunderstanding of the famous indecorous Franco-Belgian humor, or it could be something else.

Mortimer was not very good at the issues of human psychology, but he was almost certain that it was something else. And he really couldn’t understand what a man as intelligent, and exotically charming, as Hercule Poirot saw in him.

But it happened.

"I think we can go back to the hotel," said Poirot, putting out the cigarette on a tiny ashtray in his coat pocket. "It's getting cold."

"Yes let's go. And this time I want a good whiskey. "Mortimer extinguished his pipe and offered his arm again for Poirot to lean on.

This time the Belgian held onto the Scotsman more firmly, apparently wanting to make good use of the body heat that the redhead emanated. And the professor didn’t bother to share it.


	3. Chapter 3

The evening was very pleasant in Brussels. The sky was clean and starry, with a mild temperature, a pleasant breeze, the soft jazz sound coming from the local bars and the beautiful city lights offering a romantic mood.

It was thinking in the romanticism that Poirot entered the hotel where he was staying with Professor Mortimer. He had brought a bottle of wine from Liège, a break in the long combo of whiskeys and beers he had to drink to accompany his tourist friend in those last two weeks. The detective had promised to show Mortimer that it wasn't only France that made good wines.

As soon as he entered the room, he realized that the Scotsman was on a phone call. And the tone of his voice was sad.

"Yes, of course ... of course ... I know, of course ..." he said, without much enthusiasm, with his back to Poirot. "Yes, I know, Francis. It's all right. Just be careful, okay? I love you. Bye."

The professor only realized that the detective was inside the room four seconds after putting the phone heavily back on the hook.

"Oh, Poirot! I didn't even see you arrive. "

"It's all right, _mon ami._ " the Belgian put the wine on the table. "Problems?"

"Oh, not exactly. Unforeseen in Francis's work. He's going to have to stay in America for two more weeks."

" _Sapristi!_ And I was counting on getting to know him this weekend!"

"Yes. It seems that the urgency in me to return to England now is no longer so great." the man removed his pipe from his pocket and tried to ignite it dismayedly. "I think Professor Laroche will be happy because he said he wanted me to stay in town for a few more days to give an extra workshop to the students at the university. Well, there's nothing to stop me now, is not it?" after breaking three matchsticks, he gave up. He sat on the bed. "Ah ... damn."

"I'm sorry, _mon cher ami._ " Poirot sat down next to him. "It's really very difficult a relationship where the couple needs to stay away from each other for long periods of time."

"Before... I didn't care much, because even when we're home, Francis practically doesn't let me work," the man smirked. "If you understand me."

"Haha! Of course I understand! My Arthur is like that too! After spending months taking care of his affairs in Argentina he always comes back very needy. "

"Speaking of him, it will be a pleasure to meet the captain personally next week."

"Ah yes! In case he ... hmmm ... he's still going to take a while to get back. Problems involving plague in the harvest and the cattle in his farm in Argentina. He already sent me a telegram, advising that he will probably not return to England next month."

"What a pity."

"It'll take long, but you'll meet him, even if it's late."

"Yes. I also want you to meet Francis. "

"I would be delighted."

The two men were silent for a moment, just looking at each other. Mortimer had kept the bedroom light off before Poirot arrived, for the city's light was already bright enough. This left the whole environment in a very sensual diffused light.

"Here." said Poirot suddenly, putting his hand inside the pocket of his jacket. "This is the latest photo of Arthur. It was during one of those tedious war veteran parties that he insists I accompany him. "

He took a picture of Captain Hastings from his wallet. In it, the man was wearing his military uniform. Slightly out of shape, as the tight buttons on the belly denounced, but very handsome. The gray hair, the cute smile, and the deep blue eyes were lovely.

"He remembers Francis a little," said the professor, taking the picture from the detective's hands. "Older, of course, but still reminds Francis. Well, I guess my captain does not look as innocent as yours. "

"Don't say that in front of Arthur if you don't want to upset him," Poirot said, smiling and taking the picture back. "He thinks he is very tough, _mon pauvre Hastings!_ "

"Francis is a tough guy. At least with the country's enemies. Inside the house, he's a sweet person. "Mortimer groped his pockets for his wallet. "here. I also have a picture of him with me."

In the photo, Francis Blake appeared in civilian clothes, more precisely in golfer's clothes. He had a club on his shoulders and smiled at the camera in a restrained way.

"I will never understand this British military worship of golf!"

"Haha, me too! I find it very tedious, but I go with Francis whenever I can."

"Speaking of him, he's a _beau garçon_! The blue eyes resemble those of Arthur a little, and he has something of a gentle yet inflexible personality."

"Yes, Francis knows how to be kind when he wants, and quite firm when necessary."

"Congratulations for your captain."

"And my congratulations for yours." Mortimer put the photo away.

"Oh, it's a shame we're doomed to have such ... busy domestic partners, right? Ideally, they would always be around to meet our needs. "

"It sounds kind of selfish."

"It's impossible to be in love without being a bit selfish."

"It's true."

Again the silence rose between the two men. A silence that spoke volumes of things without needing a single sound.

Poirot was not sure which of the two made the first movement, but when he realised, he was kissing Philip Mortimer.

The soft taste of Indian tobacco was distinguishable in the Scotsman's mouth, and it seemed more agreeable when it touched the sense of taste rather than smell. His hands were wide and strong and pulled the Belgian closer, so that there was no more space between the two men.

His lips parted for a moment, only to allow them both to breathe, but soon they began to kiss again. The professor was hungry, eager to experience those foreign lips that had been denied him for weeks. Poirot, for his part, was happy to offer them.

When he felt Mortimer's fingers brushing his crotch, it was the moment that guilt struck him. _Arthur ...!_ he thought, and was forced to hold the professor by the shoulders.

"What ...?" the redhead looked breathless and rather surprised when he was interrupted. "I ... I ... I'm sorry, Poirot! I ... I thought ...! "

"You thought it right, _mon cher_." the detective's hands prevented the Scotsman from getting closer, but at the same time they wouldn't let him go. "If what you thought is that I need you, then you thought it right."

"Oh." The man looked more relieved. "But ... so ...?"

"Sorry, it's my fault. Or rather, it's my conscience that puts me to blame."

The professor's eyes widened, then he nodded.

"I understand. Maybe ... maybe it's better to pretend ... this kiss never happened."

"Is it your wish, _mon cher?_ Pretend nothing happened and shut up here?"

"No," the man said flatly. "By Jove, not! But ... well, I ... "

Poirot could see that the redhead was weighing his options. The truth is that even if nothing happened between them that night, still the small 'infidelity' had already occurred. And although the Belgian detested the old saying, ' _If you have stepped into the mud, then jump in it!_ ' it was well suited to the situation.

The detective slowly continued the kiss, something that took the professor by surprise, but at the same time gave him encouragement. They both embraced again and were determined to continue what they had already begun.

And they would have done it, if a knock at the door hadn't interrupted both.

"Mr. Poirot?" a voice called, beating lightly but insistently at the door. "Please, this is Mr. Poirot's room, the detective?"

" _Merde!_ " snarled the Belgian, moving away from Mortimer and standing, adjusting his clothes and hair as best he could. "Calm down, I'm coming!"

When he opened the door, he stared at the frightened, pale face of one of the hotel's chambermaids. She was breathing heavily and was so distressed that she didn't pay attention to the detective's excuses as to why he looked so untidy.

"Oh Lord! Please! You must help us!" she said, waving her arms dramatically. "One of our guests was murdered!"


	4. Chapter 4

Mr. Hilldenberg's body lay on the bed, stomach down, with a knife nailed to his right shoulder and several other signs of cuts. The sheets beneath his body were full of blood and there were spatters and signs of struggle all over the room.

Mortimer's face was red and he was breathing heavily. One of the hotel attendants was next to him and commented, "Horrible scene, isn't it?" the professor just agreed. He would prefer that they think that the reason for his nervousness was the sight of the body and blood of the murdered man, not the rude interruption of the making out with Poirot.

"Has the coroner examined the body?" asked the detective, taking a professional stance.

"Just a quick inquiry," replied one of the policemen who kept the surveillance in the room. "He will have more details after they take the body to the morgue. But the doctor said that the man died a little more than twelve hours and not more than eighteen. "

"This means he was killed in the morning."

"Exact. Between three and nine in the morning. "

"Unlikely it was close to nine," Mortimer said. "By this time the hotel is full of chambermaids walking all around."

"This leads me to the intriguing question of why it took so long to find the body," said Poirot.

"Apparently, when the maid came to clean the room in the morning, the door was still locked. She doesn't insist because waking up a guest is considered rude. However, after hours and hours without response, the chamberlains decided to open the door with an extra key and found the body of Hilldenberg inside the room.

"Was the door locked inside?"

"Yes, the key was on the nightstand."

"Fingerprints?"

"We're still looking."

"Suspects?"

"No one yet."

Nodding, Poirot began to approach the body, taking care to not step on the drops of blood that impregnated the carpet. Mr. Hilldenberg was a stout man, which indicates that he must have fought against his aggressor. Besides the stab in the shoulder that caused his death, he had another series of injuries all over his body.

"Nobody heard anything?" the Belgian questioned, annoyed.

"Witnesses have not yet been formally questioned, but some preliminary questions for guests from nearby rooms indicate that no one has heard anything."

Poirot shook his head in annoyance. Mortimer stood beside him.

"This is really very strange." the professor stroked his beard. "Should the man have fought like a lion and no one has heard the fighting sounds?"

"It's really weird, _mon ami_. Strange and wrong. But we are only in the beginning. There is still much to investigate. "

"So you're going to take the case?"

" _Oui_. If my former Brussels police colleagues are in agreement, of course. "

"In this case, I want to help."

"Oh, you want to be my 'Captain Hastings', _mon cher_?"

"Of course, if you let me be."

The two exchanged discreet smiles.

"Well, to begin with ..." the professor looked around. "... we need to pick up clues, right? See the fingerprints in the surroundings, find out objects that may have fallen or been forgotten in the room, check the ... "

" _Non, non, non, non_!" Poirot warned. "This kind of investigation _a lá_ Sherlock Holmes doesn't please me. Clues can be misrepresented, planted or simply do not exist. Some conversations and gray cells are more than enough to solve this case. "

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, _mon cher_. And I ask that you, if you will assist me, do as I command. You're entering my field of work. "

 

........................

 

Philip remembered once that he was visiting an old college classmate at his home in Liverpool. He was introduced to his wife, a very beautiful woman, educated, intelligent and gifted. Mortimer was delighted with her right away and said this to her friend, who just replied:

"Yes, she's a great person ... when she's in front of the visitors!"

That answer made the professor look surprised, but he understood that even though the woman looked like the perfect wife in front of the others, she should have her little flaws that made her friend's marriage difficult.

That night, and on the day that followed, Mortimer was introduced to one of Poirot's defects, which had hitherto presented itself in the light form of an funny eccentricity. And now it was irritating: his arrogance.

Any suggestion or question that Philip tried to make was quickly dismissed as an idiotic idea. Perhaps a less brilliant man, like Captain Hastings, was already accustomed to dealing with the detective's haughty hauteur, but no Mortimer. After all, he also had a reasonably large ego for being the prestigious scientist he was.

They heard the witnesses staying at the hotel and the maids. Nothing. No one heard anything during the probable hours that Hilldenberg's death occurred. They also investigated his past and found out that Édouard Hilldenberg was a lawyer. He had been in Brussels for a few weeks solving a case involving misappropriation. Administrative bureaucracy. He used to travel a lot from city to city solving various cases.

The day before he died, he had just won the M. Janssens case, clearing him of having misappropriated his company. The two of them had even agreed to celebrate the victory with a dinner the next day, but the two never met.

Janssens looked frightened. He believed that his former bosses, who lost the cause, wanted revenge on him and his lawyer. The men accused, on the other hand, seemed equally shocked by what had happened, and Poirot believed them.

They got in touch with the family, who was shocked. They would travel to the capital to recognize the body and answer some questions, but would only be available the next day.

It was a whole day of questioning that got nowhere, something that made Mortimer a little frustrated.

"Easy, _mon cher_. You have to be patient, "said the detective, getting ready to go to sleep. "You shouldn't be so impulsive."

"I know, Poirot, but the problem is that walking around in circles makes me tense." the man snorted and finished the sentence before he spoke about his small discontent in having all his ideas denied by the detective.

"Everything at its time. You will see that, with calmness and discretion, we will come to the true. "

"Yes, I hope so."

The two men got ready to go to bed. They were both in pajamas and they both looked at their respective twin beds, positioned side by side in the bedroom. The same idea that Mortimer had passed through the Belgian's head: they could put the beds together that night. But not. They were both tired and Philip was not quite comfortable in bedding Poirot, especially after he had treated him as an amateur aide all day.

 

................

 

The professor couldn't sleep. There was still something that was bothering him in that case.

He got up in the middle of the night, put on his robe, and went to the room where Hilldenberg was found dead. There was a policeman standing guard at the crime scene, but Mortimer managed to persuade him to let him in.

"Technically, everything has been searched out" said the officer. "Tomorrow, when the order of the chief of police comes, the maids will clean the room."

"Wait. Let me see one thing."

Philip paced the room looking for clues. Anything. Aside from the bloodstains, there was no sign that anyone else was in the room. No strange fingerprints, no marks, no hair strands or button-down shirt. It was very, very strange. How can one person fight another and leave no trace?

As he continued to inquire, Mortimer ended up stepping on something that eventually crumbled under his foot. When he looked down, he saw that it was a small stone of salt.

"What is this?" he crouched. "By Jove, is this coarse salt?"

He took the small white particle in his hands and began to examine it.

"What a strange thing to have in a room. If it was in a kitchen ... "

"I think it was Hilldenberg's own request," said the officer. "The night before his death he ordered the roast meat and ordered some salt. More specifically, coarse salt. "

"Weird. Usually when they want to salt the food people ask for normal salt. Why he…? Wait. Does the fragment look like it was burned out? Melted, to be more exact. Where have I seen something like that? "

And then Philip's eyes widened. An idea had occurred to him.

 

................

 

It was almost midnight when the scientist woke Poirot up.

"Hey, chap! Come see! I think I discovered something!"

" _Mais quoi_...?" the detective looked up. "Discovered what?"

"Something that went unnoticed by all of you! Both the rational Sherlock Homes of the physical clues and the geniuses of psychology!"

The two men entered the room. Poirot confused until the scientist removed a strange object from inside his robe.

"This is a small device that allows you to identify materials that are the junction of a metal with a non-metal, more specifically a cation and an anion, ie: salts! I invented it to help port city engineers remove salt from their engines, since it can corrode metal quickly. "

" _Mon ami_ , I don't understand what you ..."

Before the detective finished the sentence, Mortimer turned the device on. A small beam of light was fired and the scientist began to pass this light onto the floor of the room. At times, a bluish glow became noticeable.

"There was a circle of coarse salt here, right in the middle of the room." the Scotsman pointed to the floor. "We couldn't see it because the grains were melted, they became liquid and were absorbed by the floor. But a grain a little bigger resisted and I stepped on it, fortunately! "

"A circle of salt? But why would anyone do that?"

"Do you believe in magic, Poirot?"

The Belgian nodded in annoyance and irritation. He couldn't believe what the professor was suggesting.

"Mortimer! Don't tell me that... Hilldenberg's death has something to do with this superstition called magic, right? You're a scientist!"

"Yes, I am." the Scot turned off his device. "But I saw a lot of strange things in my life that would make any skeptic become a devotee of the craziest fanciful theories. Parallel worlds, time travel, extraterrestrials, ancient curses ... magic. " he let out a sigh. "The world is larger than you think, Poirot. A lot more."

"Oh, _mon dieu_!" the detective put his hands on his head. "So what are we going to do? This is an area I have little knowledge of! "

"Don't worry, Poirot!" Mortimer gave a wide, satisfied smile. "I take care of everything now and ask that, if you want to help me, you do as I say. You're entering my field of work."


	5. Chapter 5

Annoying! Completely annoying! How can this happen?!

The great Hercule Poirot, Europe's most prodigious mind, had fallen in the role of a mere assistant. And in a murder case, no less! Poirot could not remember the last time he had been under someone's orders. Probably in his early years as a policeman, and yet he knew how to impose himself on his superiors.

But now he had no choice. He, always a rational man and little interested in superstitions, had to follow what Professor Mortimer said. He was the specialist in the area of the unknown and the supernatural.

Not that the prospect of being 'behind' him was so unpleasant, from another angle.

_Sacre! For a Brit he has a ... quite generous hip!_

"... and we have some more samples to collect as soon as we finish the room ... huh? Poirot? Are you listen to me?"

" _Comment_?!" the Belgian's green eyes blinked twice. "Oh, sorry, _mon ami_ , I was lost in thought."

"Oh, I see!" the professor, who was crouched looking for some clues in the room, turned his back on him again. "Thinking about the case?"

"Yes, yes ... although this whole story of invoking beings from other planes is making my poor gray cells stun."

"Haha, don't worry! I already told you that you just have to follow what I say and everything will be fine."

"Yes, of course ... I'll always be behind you," the Belgian replied, with a restrained smile and still watching those generous buttocks clenched in those tweed pants.

Most of the Englishmen Poirot knew, including women, were straight boards. Bodies almost without curves, of white complexion almost like ghosts and monocordial voices. Hastings was just like that. The Belgian did not find the captain even attractive at first glance - though his lovely blue eyes and boyish face were indeed captivating.

Gradually, as the detective was able to break the ice armor made of decorum and phlegm that most Englishmen carry, he began to meet the real Captain Hastings and so fall in love with him. Arthur was one of the gentle and kindest souls the Belgian had ever known, and it was thanks to his honorable and lovable personality that Poirot began to see a little more appeal to him. Friendship became love, and then lust.

In Mortimer's case, the road was totally reversed. The professor has always been an open and spontaneous person from the beginning. He didn't wear an 'ice armor' because he didn't need it. Yes, like most gentlemen, he knew to be serious and phlegmatic when the occasion demanded, but he had the custom of being incredibly warm and open when he was in the company of friends.

His face was not exactly handsome, but his body had forms that appealed too much to the Belgian. It was strong, compact, with generous curves and a light tan. His voice was strong and pleasant to hear, making him a great speaker.

From the first moment, Poirot was attracted to the Scot. But he had to admit that the more he knew him, the less he would fall in love. He was a good company, but not the kind he'd like to live the rest of his days. There was nothing emotional about it, just physical attraction. The two, however, could remain good friends ... 'friends with benefits' would be even better.

"You're not the kind to be scared easy, are you, Poirot?" Mortimer asked suddenly.

"What, me?!"  _what a daring!_  the Belgian thought, biting his lip discreetly. "Of course not, _mon cher_. I may be an old cripple, but I've faced many dangerous situations without anyone's help! "

"Haha, calm down, my dear! First, you're no old, neither cripple! Second, I just wanted to ask if ... well ... what do you think of the idea of facing a demonic creature?"

Poirot laughed, but then fell silent and sobered again.

" _Mon Dieu_ , if it's you who is speaking this I suppose I have to take it seriously. Well, what about the idea of facing a demonic creature? Obviously, I think it's terrible. And I imagine that it should not be the kind of creature that can be turned away by holding a crucifix or using holy water."

"No, I'm afraid not." the Scotsman had a wooden box in front of him. Inside, there were a few grains of salt that were found in the room, fragments of broken wooden objects and a bit of black candle wax. "I still need to make some confirmations, but what I saw here were clear signs that someone tried to invoke a demonic creature - and no, it has nothing to do with the old scriptures. I would say it has more to do with entities that are worshiped by a race before our own. "

"Before the Caucasians?"

"Before humans."

It was rare, but Poirot felt cold.

"If I were not your assistant in this case, I'd say you're completely nuts."

"But since you are my assistant in this case, I ask you to trust me. At least for a while. I may be wrong, of course ... actually, I hope I'm wrong. For the worst that can happen to us, definitely, is not death. "

Another silence. The Belgian shuddered once more, then regained his composure.

"Well, _mon cher_ , if we're ever going to have to face some kind of dark entity, I suppose we should get ready, shall we? What do you suggest? If a church is useless, where could we call for help? "

"Normal churches are useless, but there are still remnants of old cults in some places, and not everyone who knows these old entities is bad people ... just the majority." the professor let out a long sigh. "I think I know one of them. A person who has long been touched by the madness that such knowledge brings. I think he can help us. "

"And who would this person be? He lives here in Belgium?"

"Oh yes, I hope so!" Mortimer smiled, closing the wooden box. "He is ... he was a captain of the merchant navy. A very good man, but who had to sink into the drink to ward off the bad memories of his unpleasant experiences with the supernatural. "

"I understand. So let's go after this man."

"Even better. Let's go after the reporter who is his friend. He must live right here in Brussels."

Without knowing why, Poirot felt confident.

"All right, lead the way!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who they gonna call? :D


End file.
